


spring/summer collection

by etben



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Clothing Kink, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/pseuds/etben
Summary: “Yeah, well.”  David shrugs.  “It’s important tomethat you wear something you didn’t buy at Canadian Tire.”Stevie looks down at her outfit and shrugs.“I got the jeans at Goodwill?”David shudders.  “Okay, come on, we’re fixing thisnow.”
Relationships: Stevie Budd/David Rose
Comments: 43
Kudos: 145





	spring/summer collection

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in s1/s2, probably? IDK, time is fake. #jeremybearimy
> 
> Thanks to [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus) and [whetherwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whetherwoman) for their invaluable assistance with this pile of filth. ♥

“So I can’t help but notice,” David says one afternoon, “that despite negotiating a _very_ favorable agreement, you haven’t actually worn any of my clothes.”

He’s using the tone of voice he always does when he’s pretending to be casual, all carefully-timed pauses and a gentle lift at the end of his sentences. When Stevie turns around, he’s elaborately unconcerned, his hands flapping aimlessly in the air, eyebrows raising and lowering in melodramatic semaphore. 

It’s completely transparent, just like it always is. David Rose has many talents—according to David Rose, at least—but hiding his feelings isn’t one of them.

“Oh?” Stevie raises an eyebrow right back. “Keeping track of my wardrobe, David?”

David snorts, loud and inelegant. “Pretty sure you have to have more than three distinct items of clothing for it to count as a wardrobe.”

“Um, excuse _you_ —”

“Six identical flannels and three pairs of ratty jeans do not a wardrobe make, Stevie.”

“Says the man with _how_ many black and white sweaters?”

“Okay, that is _not_ —” For a second, Stevie thinks that David’s going to treat her to another rendition of _Couture and You_ , his signature rant. She widens her eyes in anticipation, biting her lip to keep her face straight. He went for seventeen minutes last time, but Stevie’s confident that she can get him to twenty.

David doesn’t take the bait, though. Instead, he narrows his eyes at Stevie, lower lip jutting out mulishly. 

“That’s not the point.” His eyebrows are _ferocious_. “Why don’t you wear any of my clothes?”

“I mean, you did threaten to murder me in my sleep if I got stains on any of it,” Stevie says.

“Shut up, you know I was kidding,” David says, even though his expression at the time had been distinctly non-joking. “Seriously, there’s some stuff there that you could definitely pull off.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Stevie rolls her eyes. “I’ll just wear your designer jacket to lunch at the café, maybe swing by Town Hall on my way back.” 

“Um, _I’m_ sorry,” David snaps, “I didn’t realize there was a dress code for the fucking _Café Tropicale_.” He tilts his head, his lip curling. “Should I wear something in plaid? Or is camo more the look this season?”

“No, it’s just—” 

“You know what, never mind, whatever,” David says, flapping his hand dismissively. “It’s fine if you don’t want to take advantage of my incredibly generous offer.” He makes a face and turns back to his phone, scrolling aggressively through Instagram.

Stevie almost leaves it alone, but there’s a note in his voice, something in the set of his shoulders that she can’t let rest. She leaves the dust rag on the dresser, strips off her gloves, and drops on to the bed next to David, knocking her shoulder into his.

“Hey,” she says. David makes a vague noise, pretending to be distracted by his phone, but Stevie can see his screen; he’s back at least three days, to posts she knows for a fact he’s already seen. “ _David_.”

“Oh my God, _what_.”

“Pretty sure that’s _my_ question, actually,” Stevie says. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

“I’m not being—” The rest of David’s blatant lie is lost in a whoosh of affronted air when Stevie elbows him in the stomach.

“You’re being _super_ weird about this, and you know it,” she tells him. “Like, weird even for you.” Stevie ignores David’s squawk and knocks their shoulders together again, leaning steadily against David until he gives a long, gusty sigh.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he says. “You were just—I don’t know, you were all excited about the clothes, and then _I_ got excited about you being excited, but now you don’t wear any of it.” He looks down at his hands, fidgeting with one of his rings. “Which is dumb, because you’re, like, basically the only other person here who could pull any of it off.”

Stevie snorts. “Well, _that’s_ a stretch.”

“It’s not, though.” David’s hand lands on Stevie’s shoulder, warm and enormous through the worn flannel of her shirt, tugging at her until she turns to face him. “Stevie, would I lie to you?”

“...you lied to me _yesterday_ ,” Stevie reminds him. 

David waves her off. “Yeah, okay, about whether or not there were any Doritos left in the bag.” His face is suddenly, terrifyingly sincere. “I wouldn’t lie to you about something important.”

“That’s—” There are a thousand things Stevie wants to say, caught and tangled in a knot in her throat. “For the record, those Doritos were pretty important to me,” she manages.

“Yeah, well.” David shrugs. “It’s important to _me_ that you wear something you didn’t buy at Canadian Tire.”

Stevie looks down at her outfit and shrugs.

“I got the jeans at Goodwill?”

David shudders. “Okay, come on, we’re fixing this _now_.”

Stevie has three rooms left to clean, though, and David can’t be relied on to do anything more labor-intensive than getting fresh towels from the supply closet. In the end, it’s more like an hour and a half later when they actually make it to the Love Room.

“You could have made the beds, at least,” she tells David, kicking off her shoes and leaning against the dresser. “Or dusted, or done _literally anything._ ”

“Um, I have allergies?” David gives an unconvincing little cough. “Also, have you seen the guy that’s staying in room 3? Those sheets need to be _boiled._ ” He makes a face.

“I don’t know,” Stevie says, unable to resist. “He’s kind of cute, in a mangey sort of way.” Like, literally mangey; Stevie kept her gloves on the whole time she was in the room.

“ _Boiled,_ ” David repeats. “In _bleach_.” He frowns at Stevie. “Well, what are you waiting for? Clothes off, come on, let’s go.” Before Stevie can react, he’s flinging the closet door open and standing back to look at the rows of outfits. “Hmmmm,” he says, his index finger tapping meditatively against his chin. “Not that, and definitely not that—nothing from that whole collection, actually.” He tilts his head, then nods. “This, though,” he says, grabbing a hanger, “and this, and this, and, oh, _both_ of these, and—” He turns around and frowns. “Why are you still dressed?”

“I—” Stevie shrugs. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long you were going to need.” The Love Room is cool despite the heat of the day outside, and she doesn’t want to hang around in her underwear indefinitely. “That was a lot faster than I expected, honestly.”

“Oh, no,” David says, dropping a mountain of clothing onto the bed and tugging insistently and unhelpfully at the sleeves of Stevie’s flannel. “This is just the first round.”

Stevie obediently strips off her clothes and then hesitates, trying to figure out where to put them. The bed is rapidly disappearing under more of David’s clothing, so that’s out, and the Love Room doesn’t really have any other furniture apart from the dresser, which David is currently blocking.

“Um—”

“Ugh, here, give me those.” David snatches Stevie’s clothes and starts folding them without even looking down at his hands, turning Stevie’s rumpled flannel and ratty jeans into a neatly squared-off pile. “You’re not going to fit into any of my jeans, but try the Rick Owens pants, there on the end.” Stevie turns to the bed and reaches for something that looks like pants, glancing over her shoulder for confirmation. David hums approvingly. “And then I think the 2015 j.juun—no, the black one—the _black_ one, are you even listening? Oh my _God_.” He snatches a long-sleeved t-shirt out of her hand and replaces it with an identical long-sleeved t-shirt, any differences between them well above Stevie’s paygrade. “Come on, chop chop.”

“I take it back,” Stevie says, pulling the shirt over her head. “I don’t want to wear any of your clothes.” The pants are fairly straightforward, at least, with no unnecessary buckles or straps; Stevie tugs them over her hips and cinches the drawstring, turning back to face David. “Okay, uh—”

“Here, come here.” David grabs Stevie by the shoulders and steers her over to the mirror hanging crookedly from the back of the bathroom door. “The lighting is terrible, obviously, but just—” He stands behind her, his chin resting on the crown of her head, his hands cupped gently around her upper arms. “You see?”

“I—” Stevie does, is the thing. The fabric of the shirt might as well be see-through, catching on every awkward angle of her body and turning it into something dangerous and alluring. The pants are just sweatpants, but they’re disgustingly plush. “I think these pants are the softest thing I’ve ever put on my body,” she tells David.

“Well.” He smirks into her hair. “Having seen your wardrobe, that’s less of a compliment than you think it is.” He tilts his head. “The length is a little funny on you, though. _This,_ on the other hand—” He trails a hand down her side, warm and electric through the delicate fabric. “This is very good.” 

Stevie’s skin prickles, her whole body lighting up with a rush of energy as David’s thumb rubs back and forth over her hipbone. She hadn’t been thinking of this as a sex thing, but suddenly she can’t think of anything else.

“You know what _else_ is good?” Stevie leans back into David, rubbing her ass against the cradle of his hips. He’s not all the way hard, but she can feel the line of his dick through his pants, and he’s definitely getting there.

“I—” David stares at her in the mirror, his eyes hot and dark, his hands clenching on her hips. “Stevie—”

She grinds back for half a second more, then steps away, breaking his grip on her. “Okay, so that’s a yes on the shirt, a no on the pants.” She turns back to David, raising an eyebrow. “What else do you have?”

David doesn’t answer for a long moment, standing there and blinking at Stevie, his mouth hanging half-open. It’s not a good look for him, but something about it fills Stevie’s stomach with heat, fierce and possessive and triumphant. _She_ did that, _she_ put that sex-stupid look on David Rose’s face. He’s fucked more people than she’s ever met, probably, people with money and connections, people who know things about fashion and art and other fancy shit—

—but right now he’s _hers._

Stevie rolls her shoulders out, arching her back and stretching her neck. The fabric of the shirt slides over her breasts, a whisper of silky friction that makes her thighs clench in anticipation.

“Okay, well, that’s one down.” Stevie tugs the shirt over her head and tosses it to David, who flails but more or less manages to catch it.

“Ugh, God, I know you don’t respect me but you could at least respect _these._ ” David’s voice is light, but there’s a flush climbing up the back of his neck, and he’s got his hands clenched in the fabric in a way that he would absolutely _murder_ Stevie for doing. “And you—” He swallows visibly, his eyes darting down her body and back up. “You should lose the bra,” he says. “For the next outfit.” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly, and turns back to the bed. “Or not, whatever, just, the lines of some of these pieces really aren’t meant for—” 

Stevie tunes him out, unhooking her bra as he goes on about the drape of the fabric and the seaming. She holds it in both hands, watching David sort through the piles of clothing, then raises her arm and whips it dead at his head.

“Ow!” David jumps and flails, the loose straps of the bra wrapping around his wrist. “Stevie, what the—” He turns back to her again and sucks in a breath.

“You were saying?” Stevie unties the drawstring and lets the pants fall in a puddle at her feet, leaving her standing in her panties and nothing else. Her nipples go tight, which could be the chill of the room and could be the heat of David’s stare. “David?”

“Right, uh.” David grabs at the pile of clothing on the bed and pulls out a tangle of fabric, shoving it into Stevie’s hands. “Try this.”

“Okay, and this is—” Stevie turns it over in her hands, trying to figure out what exactly she’s dealing with. “Ugh, is this one of your weird skirt-pants things?”

“It’s _Dries van Noten,_ ” David says, as if that means anything to Stevie. “And it will look good on you, trust me.” He moves in close, steadying Stevie as she steps into the pants. “And just—here, like this.” He slides the fabric up over her hips, his fingertips tracing lines of heat along Stevie’s thighs. “Good.” His words gust out over her sternum, his mouth dangerously close to her bare breasts. Stevie bites her lip and tries to keep her breathing steady.

“David—“ But before Stevie can find the end of her sentence David is backing away, rifling through the mountain of clothes.

“Here,” he says, pushing a fold of fabric into Stevie’s hands. “This should be good.”

“And _this_ is—” Stevie shakes it out, then raises an eyebrow at David. “A white tee shirt?”

“Trust me, less is more sometimes.”

“Bold words from a man wearing two different floral prints,” Stevie says, and pulls the shirt over her head to the sound of David’s sputtering protests. “Ugh, fuck.” All of this dressing and undressing is pulling Stevie’s hair from its ponytail; she yanks out the hair tie and starts to smooth her hair back.

“Leave it down? I mean, uh.” David swallows, fidgeting with his rings. “If you want to.” His face is flushed, his eyes wide and hungry. Stevie wonders if he’s thinking about the last time he told her to wear her hair down, that time when she rode him for what felt like hours, her thighs trembling with effort, sweat beading at her temples and the small of her back. _Take your hair down,_ he’d gasped, and she’d done it, tugged the elastic free and let her hair fall loose around her shoulder, feathering across her breasts as she rose and fell on his dick. David had groaned, punched out and greedy, his hands on her hips like an anchor, like a brand, and he’d made her come twice on his dick before flipping her over and eating her out until she saw _stars._

“Sure,” Stevie says, dropping the hair tie on the dresser and shaking her hair out. “Whatever.” 

The moment stretches out silently, the two of them facing each other over a pile of clothing that could easily pay Stevie’s rent for the next two months. It’s so much, it’s too much, too serious, too real for the two of them. Part of Stevie wants to do something to break it—something silly, something sexy, just _something_ to walk them back from this sudden edge of intensity. 

She doesn’t, though. David’s gaze slides over her body like a summer heatwave, slow and sweltering, and Stevie stands there and lets him look at her.

“Yeah,” David says eventually. “Yeah, that’s a good look for you.” He tilts his head toward the mirror, beckoning her close. “Want to see?”

Stevie moves in front of him, takes stock of the uneven reflection facing her. It’s—

“I look—” She can’t find the words: she looks dangerous, confident, like the kind of person who knows things about wine and art and international politics. “I look _cool,_ ” she says eventually, and it’s not enough but it’s as close as she can get.

“It’s the pants,” David says. “Dries van Noten, I told you. And, oh—” He pulls away for a moment, then comes back, sliding something up her arms. “This one you can only use if I’m not wearing it, but, here, look.” He tugs at the shoulders of a leather jacket— _his_ leather jacket, the one he wears to the bar when he wants to pick up, the one he wears to look intimidating and untouchable.

It smells like David: his cologne, his sweat, his stupid hair cream. Stevie cocks her head to the side, savoring the soft warm drag of the leather against her cheek.

“That’s nice.” David is close behind her, his voice rumbling down her spine and dripping hot and liquid between her thighs.

“It’s not bad,” Stevie allows, underplaying it just to see David’s eyes spark in indignation. “Okay, what’s next?” She makes sure to lean into David’s space as she takes the jacket off, not touching him but close enough to feel the heat of his body.

“Here,” he says, easing the jacket over her elbows and taking it. “Let me.”

“Mmm, thanks.” Stevie looks at David out of the corner of her eye, watching him try to pretend he’s not watching her. She toys with the hem of the t-shirt for a moment, then drops her hands to the fastenings of the pants. “Ugh, these are so complicated,” she says, fiddling with the clasp and frowning. “Why do you even bother?”

“Oh my God, don’t—here, just let me—” David rolls his eyes and steps forward, shifting the jacket to the crook of his elbow to free his hands. “It’s really not that hard,” he tells her, unhooking the pants with unthinking deftness. The backs of his fingers brush against Stevie’s stomach, the front of her underwear, a glancing pressure that makes Stevie’s blood burn.

“Oh?” Stevie rocks her hips forward, moving into the awkward press of David’s knuckles through the fabric. “I don’t know, David.” She slides a hand along his waist, over the bulge in his jeans. “Seems pretty hard to me.”

“I—” David’s breath catches, his hips twitching towards her. Stevie can tell the exact moment when her words register, because his eyes snap open and he glares at her. “You know, I don’t _have_ to let you wear my clothes.”

“You’d go back on a deal?” Stevie steps back and finishes unhooking the pants, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them. “David, I’m disappointed in you.”

“ _You’re_ disappointed?” David huffs out a breath, scooping the pants up and folding them. “Here I am, letting you rifle through my wardrobe—”

“Mmm, I think you did all of the rifling, actually.”

“—out of the goodness of my heart, and this is how you thank me?” He places the folded pants back on the bed, then turns back to Stevie and stops, mouth half-open. “Uh—”

“Yeah?” Stevie feels vulnerable and awkward, standing naked in this dingy nightmare of a room, but there’s a strange power in it, too, simmering hot and sweet under her skin. She cocks her hip and meets David stare for stare, feeling his gaze slide up and down her body, catching on her collarbones, her nipples, the points of her hips, the curve of her thighs. “You were saying?”

David jerks like he’s been tased, his eyes wide and startled. “I—hang on, yeah.” He turns back to the pile of clothing and starts digging through it, tossing shirts and pants aside with a flattering lack of care. “I saw it, I literally _just_ saw it—ha, yes!” He straightens up with a bewildering tangle of black and white fluff cradled between his hands, a mish-mash of stripes that resolves itself into one of his sweaters. “Here.”

Stevie takes the sweater, savoring the brush of David’s hands against hers. “And this is...”

“Neil Barrett, fall 2015,” David says immediately. “And it’s going to look amazing on you.”

“If you say so.” Stevie pulls it over her head and fumbles for the arm holes. The sweater is somehow both soft and scratchy at the same time, sliding over her body like a sigh. It’s big on her, which means that the sleeves drape over her knuckles and the hem is almost long enough to be a skirt, even as the collar drapes low over her chest. She looks up at David, tilting her head as she smoothes the sweater over her hips. “Like this?”

“Stevie, _fuck._ ” David’s voice is raw, punched out, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands: he flexes them, shoves them into his pockets, pulls them back out, drags them over his face. “You look— _fuck._ ” He shakes his head. “Sorry, I just—you’re so—” He bites his lip. “Um, can we stop pretending that we don’t both want to have sex?”

“But David.” Stevie pouts, doing her best to hide the laughter bubbling up in her chest. “I thought you wanted to see me in your clothes?”

“I do,” David says, “I totally fucking do, just—” He steps close and trails his hand delicately down Stevie’s side, curling it around her hip. “I also want to make you come.” He slides his other hand up to cup her breast, dragging his thumb in lazy circles around her nipple. The heavy fabric mutes the sensation into an agonizing tease, delicate and abrasive all at once. Stevie leans into David’s grip without meaning to. “Can I make you come, Stevie?”

“Hmmm.” Stevie pulls away from David’s grasp and steps over to the dresser. She looks back at him over her shoulder. “I don’t know, David,” she says, bending over the dresser, the hem of the sweater inching up the backs of her thighs. “ _Can_ you?”

“I _hate_ you,” David says, but he’s moving even as he says it, stepping between Stevie’s spread legs, his shoes tapping at the insides of her ankles. “Seriously, you’re the absolute fucking _worst,_ ” as he pushes the sweater up to expose her ass, the dip of her back.

“Mmm, okay.” Stevie shoves back into his hands, sweet and greedy. “Just, does being the worst mean you’re going to fuck me already, or what?”

“I—yeah.” David slides a hand up her thigh and between her legs, cupping Stevie through her panties where she’s slick and sensitive. “Is that what you want?” He rocks his hand back and forth, a slow, shifting pressure that’s just shy of what Stevie needs.

“Fuck you,” she says, pushing backwards against him. He’s still dressed, and his jeans chafe deliciously against the bare skin of her thighs. “God, David, fuck, can you just hurry up and—”

“Okay, okay.” He moves away and Stevie swallows a groan. “Here, can you—” He snaps at the elastic of her underwear, a shock of sensation against her hip.

“Right, yeah.” Stevie hooks her thumbs under the waistband and peels the panties off, flinging them over her shoulder without looking. She’s wet, she’s _aching,_ and then David’s gripping her hip with one hand and holding her open with the other, pushing inside her with his stupid fat dick that hits all of the right places.

“Oh, _fuck,_ ” Stevie sighs, her voice a rasping counterpoint to David’s moan. “Fuck, yeah, just— _yeah,_ ” as David slides inside her, thick and hot and so, so good. “God, yeah, give it to me.”

“Stevie, _oh._ ” David’s voice is low and breathy, all air and desperation. He pulls back until the head of his dick is resting against Stevie’s cunt, just the barest hint of pressure, the promise of more. “Fuck, you’re so—” His chin rasps against Stevie’s spine when he shakes his head. “God, Stevie, you’re amazing.” 

“Yeah,” Stevie says, “I know.” She can’t stifle her giggles, but David’s laughing too, even as he settles his hands on her hips and presses back into her, fucking her hard and deep and relentless. It’s good, it’s so good, the thick hot press of his dick inside her, the scrape of his stubble against her shoulder, the way he huffs out a laugh into her hair. “Oh, yeah, like that,” she says, spreading her feet wider and tilting her hips up to get him deeper. “ _Fuck._ ”

David’s hands tighten on her hips, his grip firm through the fuzz of the sweater. “You like that?” He gives Stevie three quick thrusts in a row, then stops, holding her in place, stretched tight around his dick. It’s _agonizingly_ good. “Is that good for you, Stevie?”

“Here’s an idea.” Stevie squirms, trying to get the leverage to fuck back against David. He holds her steady, though, always stronger than she expects under all of the fluff and mannerisms. “What if you stopped fishing for compliments and gave me your fucking _dick_ instead?”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” David says, the asshole. Stevie gives up on words and squeezes down on his dick, savoring the tight hot clench of him inside her, the way he moans and presses his forehead to the back of her shoulder, swearing under his breath. “Stevie—”

“Whenever you’re ready,” she says, and stifles a moan of her own as David shoves her flat against the dresser and starts to fuck her again. It’s good, but she still tilts her head back until she can catch David’s gaze. She raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“Is that—oh my _God,_ ” David hisses, punctuating his words with a hard thrust. “Seriously, you’re the absolute _worst._ ” He’s really giving it to her now, though, fast and deep and steady, his hands holding her down, his breathing ragged in her ear. It’s exactly what she wants, exactly what she needs; Stevie lets her head drop to the dresser and arches her back to get the angle just right.

“Mmmm, okay,” she says. “Careful, though.”

“Careful?” David slows down until he’s just rocking gently into her, going from aggressive to solicitous on a dime. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, just.” Stevie looks down at her arms, folded in front of her. The sweater is vibrant against the dull laminate of the dresser, stripes crossing and re-crossing in shades of black and white and gray. “I wouldn’t want to get your sweater all messy.”

“You—”

“I mean, I’m getting kind of sweaty,” she says. “Or, gosh, what if you got _come_ on it?” She widens her eyes, even though David can’t see her face from this angle. He’s always been able to read her, right from the beginning; he’ll know. “Would that be, like, really bad for the fabric?”

“I—you— _what?_ ” David sounds frantic, overwhelmed, bewildered: just how Stevie likes him.

“Man, that would be a real shame,” she continues. “If you fucked me and then got jizz all over this nice sweater.”

“You know I hate that word,” David says, but he starts fucking her again. 

“What word?” Stevie rocks back into David’s thrusts, urging the rhythm faster, faster. “Jizz?”

“It’s just so—inelegant.” She can practically see the face he’s making: the twist of his mouth, the disapproving arch of his eyebrows.

“Sorry, David,” Stevie says. “Would you prefer a different word?”

“Well—”

“Let’s see.” Stevie hums thoughtfully. “Spunk?”

“You know, you really don’t have to—”

“Semen? Seed? _Love juice?_ ”

“Um, or you could not—”

“Baby batter? _Spooge?_ ”

“Okay, I don’t know _where_ this is coming from, but I would honestly rather not.” David tightens his grip on Stevie’s hips, pinning her in place. “Seriously, do you have an off switch? How do I make this stop?”

“You could try fucking me some more.” Stevie rolls her hips against the steady pressure of David’s hands, firm and unrelenting. “I bet I’ll stop if you fill me up with your—”

“Oh my God, don’t you _dare_ —”

“—with your _man jelly._ ”

“You know, maybe we should just use condoms,” David says. “Avoid this whole Urban Dictionary thing you’ve got going on.”

“Awww, come on, you don’t mean that.” He doesn’t, clearly: he’s already starting to fuck her again, deep thrusts that send pleasure washing through Stevie’s body in slow, inexorable waves. “We talked about it, remember?” And hadn’t that been a fun conversation, holding David down with her hands on his wrists, braced over him and teasing them both. Stevie’s thighs had been trembling by the end, and David had been a sweaty wreck, gasping and begging beautifully underneath her. _Stevie, please—God, please, let me—I want, I need, please,_ please, _Stevie—_ “You love fucking me like this,” Stevie reminds him.

“Right, _I’m_ the one who loves it.” Even over the rising thud of her pulse, she can hear David roll his eyes. “ _I’m_ the one who was so hot for it that we had to fuck at the Wobbly Elm last week.”

“Um—”

“On Tuesday, I mean,” David clarifies. “Friday was—”

“Friday was a special case, yeah.” There’s a new weekend bartender, and her mixed drinks are _dangerous._ Stevie stretches her arms out to brace them against the wall. Tuesday, though... “I mean, I didn’t hear you complaining on Tuesday.”

“Oh, I loved it,” David agrees. “You dragged me out back and made me do you up against the wall, you were so desperate to get fucked.”

“Mmm, would we say desperate?”

“You told me that if I didn’t give it to you right away you’d replace my conditioner with hydrogen peroxide,” David says. “That says ‘desperate’ to me.” 

“Listen, it got you to put your back into it. And speaking of which—” Stevie tosses her hair, looking over her shoulder at David with an eyebrow raised. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“I’m sorry, did you need something?” David punctuates his words with slow rolling thrusts that rock Stevie’s body back and forth. Her skin catches and drags against the cheap fake wood of the dresser, sweaty and disgusting and so, so good. “Can I get you anything?”

“Yeah, actually.” Stevie groans, savoring the heat of David’s body behind her, inside her. “You can fill me up with your—”

“Stevie, I swear to God—”

“—big fat cock.”

“...okay.” David sounds suspicious. “Does that mean that you’re done now? Because I for one would really like it if—”

“Just be careful about the sweater,” Stevie adds. “You wouldn’t want to get any _ejaculate_ on it.” She makes sure to enunciate as precisely as possible, clear vowels and crisp consonants. 

Behind her, David groans. “I’m just going to fuck you,” he says. “Maybe if I fuck you hard enough, you’ll shut up.” He’s as good as his word, snapping his hips forward hard enough that the dresser starts to rattle ominously. 

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me.” David makes a low, choked noise, his hips stuttering. She smirks and keeps going. “Get me all messy and sweaty in your pretty clothes, come on.” David picks up the pace and Stevie braces her weight to take it, her whole body alive and thrumming with pleasure. “Come on,” she says, egging him on, “fuck me, mess me up, just like that.”

“Fuck, oh, Stevie, _fuck,_ ” David gasps. “You’re so—you’re—I—” He shakes his head in wordless frustration, then bites down on her shoulder and keeps on giving it to her hot and fast and perfect.

“God, oh, yeah.” The dresser is really shaking now, thumping against the wall with every thrust. The couple in room 8 will probably make a noise complaint—they seem like the type—but Stevie can’t make herself care, not now, not with David’s dick filling her up just right, his sweaty hands clasped around her hips, his teeth in her skin, his voice in her ear. “That’s it, that’s, oh, _oh—_ ” She gets one hand down to her clit and rubs frantically, shoving herself over the edge in a sudden rush of brilliant, tingling sensation. “ _Fuck,_ ” she sighs, clenching down in delicious satisfaction, letting David’s thrusts drag out the aftershocks. 

“I—oh, _fuck—_ ” David’s voice trails off in a series of low, frantic vowel sounds as he comes, spilling into Stevie in a rush of heat, gasping against her spine. “ _God._ ”

“Mmmm,” Stevie agrees. They stay like that for a moment, breathing in gusty syncopation in the midafternoon quiet. “But, uh, actually—” She shifts her hips meaningfully.

“Yeah, no, okay.” David pulls out with a wet, filthy noise, leaving Stevie aching around the sudden emptiness. “And now—hang on—” His hand slides up her back, pushing the sweater out of the way. “I don’t want to stress the fabric,” David mutters, “but maybe—” He hums thoughtfully.

“Uh, I mean.” Stevie’s sweaty and naked from the waist down, which was sexy five minutes ago but is rapidly verging towards awkward. “I can take the sweater off?” She reaches for the hem but finds David’s hands there already.

“No, no,” David says, slapping at her wrists. “I’ve got it, this is—just, here.” He tugs her away from the desk and steers her in an awkward semicircle, holding the sweater up. “Now sit.”

“I—okay, _okay,_ sheesh.” Stevie lets David chivvy her up onto the dresser. When he gets like this, it’s not worth trying to dissuade him; better to go with the flow of whatever _vision_ he has. “Okay, I’m sitting,” she says, shifting her weight and hoping that the dresser holds up. “Now what?”

David lets go of the hem of the sweater, draping it over her hips and patting it gently. “Now,” he says, dropping to his knees, “I’m going to make you come.” Before she can react, he’s pushing her thighs apart and leaning in, his mouth glistening in the dim light.

“I— _oh,_ ” Stevie sighs, the words dissolving under the feeling of David’s tongue over her clit, coaxing her along the sweet, heady edge of overstimulation. “Yeah.” She spreads her legs wider, sliding her hands into his hair and rocking gently up against his face. His jaw prickles against her thighs in a gorgeous counterpoint to the slow, lush press of his tongue. “Mmm,” but it’s not quite enough, not now. “Can you—?” Stevie tilts her hips up hopefully. 

David draws back, licking his lips in a performatively sexy way that still totally does it for Stevie, unfortunately. “I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes glinting wickedly. “Did you want something?” He brings a hand up to his mouth and sucks showily at his fingers. God, his _mouth._

“Yeah,” Stevie says. “I want you to stop being such a jerk and fucking—” Before she can finish her sentence, David’s there, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a filthy pop and sliding them inside her, filling her up, his knuckles crooked just the way they both know she likes it. “Oh, _oh,_ ” and he pushes closer and _licks_ her, his tongue darting between his fingers and stretching her open, lapping at his come as it drips out, hot and sweet and obscene. “God,” she says, “Yeah, that’s right, clean it up.”

David jerks like he’s been electrocuted, pulling away from Stevie’s cunt to gasp against her thigh. “ _Stevie,_ ” he says, his voice rough and throaty.

“What?” She rolls her hips, rocking down onto his fingers. “You got me all messy,” she tells him. “Seems like it’s your job to clean me up.” She marshalls trembling, overworked muscles and squeezes against his hand, shoving his fingers where she needs them. “Is that what you’re going to do, David?”

“I—” David’s eyes flutter closed, his eyelashes a feather-light brush against Stevie’s skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m going to—Stevie, _fuck._ ”

“Well.” Stevie digs her heel into David’s shoulder, urging him forward. “Don’t just _talk_ about it, David.”

“So pushy,” David complains, but he moves back in, presses his mouth to her cunt in a slow, filthy kiss. His tongue flickers over her clit, then slides back down, licking her clean even as he fucks her open. It’s sloppy and disgusting; it’s exactly what Stevie wants. She hums in appreciation, tugging David’s hair to get him closer, her fingers tacky with whatever stupid product he uses to make it all swoopy. 

David pretends to hate it when she pulls his hair, but he can never sell it when they’re like this. True to form, he leans into Stevie’s grip, his spine going liquid as he groans. It’s a low, desperate sound, the vibrations rumbling against Stevie’s cunt and shuddering up her spine, pleasure ricocheting through her body until every nerve feels neon, electric.

“Oh,” Stevie sighs, “oh, yeah, like that, _oh—_ ” David curls his fingers, moving in a lazy, indolent rhythm that drives her higher and higher, rocking down against his fist and up against his mouth. “David, oh—” He sucks at her clit, hard and sudden, and Stevie shivers apart, orgasm flowing through her body in a rush of sensation.

David works her through it, his mouth soft and his fingers steady as pleasure washes through her. He brings her right up to the edge of too much, then pulls away, licking his lips. His hair is a wreck, his face flushed and sticky; he is, without a doubt, the hottest person Stevie’s ever fucked.

Not that she’ll ever tell him that, of course.

“I hope you didn’t get anything on the sweater,” she says instead.

“You hope that _I—_ ” David’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth twisting in disgust. 

“It’s a really nice sweater, David.” Stevie bites back her smirk, waiting.

David doesn’t disappoint. “I will have you know that I have never, not _once,_ gotten—gotten—” He pauses, grimacing.

“Jism?” Stevie leans back on her hands, cackling at the expression on David’s face. “Joy juice? Splooge?”

“You said that one already,” David says, standing up. “I mean, not that I remember, since I’ve already blocked that whole experience out of my mind, but.” He slides his hands under the sweater, easing it over Stevie’s head. “You definitely said that already.” 

“Did I?” Stevie frowns, shaking her hair out of her face as David pulls the sweater away and starts to fold it. “I don’t think I did.” She tilts her head, thinking. “I said _spooge_ , before, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Oh, of course.” David rolls his eyes. “An important distinction.”

“I mean, yeah.” Stevie shrugs, shoving her hair out of her face and looking around the room, trying to figure out where her clothes ended up. “Words have power, David.”

“The power to destroy my sex drive forever, maybe.” David scoops her jeans and shirt off the nightstand and hands them over. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Stevie bites her lip. “Although, uh—did you see where my underwear ended up?”

“Oh, um.” David turns back to the bed, tapping his index finger against his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, I think—yeah, there we go.” He fishes her bra out from the pile of clothing and passes it to Stevie, who pulls it on. She’s sweaty and gross, but her shift is almost up; she can shower at home. She tugs on her shirts as David glances around the room. “And your underwear was—”

“On the bed, toward the middle,” Stevie says. “Next to the black sweatshirt with the—no, the other one—to the left— _your_ left—” She rolls her eyes. “You know, for someone who knows so much about fashion, you’d think you’d do a better job of recognizing the one piece of clothing on the bed that _isn’t_ yours.”

“Listen—” 

“What?” Stevie tilts her head, smirking at David’s offended expression. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me, I’m pretty sure there’s only one pair of women’s panties in this room.” David bites his lip, his eyes flickering away from her face to land on a small blue suitcase tucked against the wall. The back of his neck is flushed in away that, okay, _might_ just be from the sex.

Then again, it might not. Stevie raises an eyebrow. “David?” 

“I mean, gendering clothing is just stupid, really,” David says, turning back to the bed. “Like, if I’m a man, and I wear something, that makes it men’s clothing, you know?”

“I...guess so?” Stevie looks over at the suitcase. She doesn’t remember going through it with David when they moved his clothes in here, but that would make sense, if—

“Here,” David says. “Found them.” He shoves the panties into her hand, the thin material warm from his skin.

“Thanks.” Stevie finishes getting dressed, watching as David returns all of his clothing to its various hangers and drawers. She looks up from tying her shoes to find him watching her with his head tilted to one side, his eyes unreadable. “What?”

“Here,” David says, pushing the sweater into Stevie’s hands. “This is—you should hold on to this.” His mouth quirks in a tiny smile. “Wear it sometime, maybe.”

“I—are you sure?” It’s so light in her hands, barely there. “It’s—”

“It looks good on you.” David makes it sound like that’s the end of the discussion, and who knows: for him, maybe it is.

“Thanks, David.” She drapes it gently over one arm and tilts her head toward the door. David nods and follows her. “And, you know.” She waits for David to meet her eyes, then raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we could...do this again sometime?”

She’s got some ideas for that blue suitcase, after all.


End file.
